221Bs, Holidays, and other such stories
by radialarch
Summary: A collection of drabbles, irregularly updated. Probably S/J-ish and ratings from K to T unless stated otherwise. / Ch. 8, The Elemental Suite: "Sherlock, John, and their lives through a periodic table."
1. Danger Passing

**Disclaimer**: I still own nothing. Nope.  
><strong>Spoilers<strong>: _The Reichenbach Fall  
><em>**Rating**: K  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: Allusion to character death. (Yeah, _that_ one.)  
><strong>Wordcount<strong>: 235

_A/N:_ For the ides of March.

* * *

><p><em>(The ides of March have come—<em>)

And we're still breathing, aren't we, despite Moriarty's assassins and lies and the newspapers rising up like sharks scenting blood, running side by side, your hand in mine (and_ it's not like that_, but it's warm and comforting just the same). And I'm not even sure what we're running _from_ anymore, but it doesn't matter, not tonight, because I trust you to tell me what's going on – you'll let me know when you figure it out (_when_, not _if_), when I need to know, when you need me. And you _do_ need me, don't pretend that you don't, as much as I need you, and that's why we're a _we_. (So don't you dare go off alone and leave me behind.)

I see the flashes of fear on your face, when you're looking away in the distance and your profile is half-lit, half-shadowed in the faintest of light, and I wish I could tell you that this is going to be all right (I don't know how, but it hardly matters; it's always turned out before, hasn't it?), because you're _Sherlock Holmes_ and I believe in you (_and god how I believe in you_ – _you're not a person, you're a religion, a cult, an intoxicating dream_).

And there's the sun coming up – you see? It's all fine. Or it will be.

* * *

><p>(<em>Ay, Caesar; but not gone.<em>)

"Good-bye, John."

"_Sherlock!_"


	2. Not in the Finding but in the Searching

**Disclaimer**: I own…not Sherlock Holmes, in any of his incarnations. *sigh*  
><strong>Spoilers<strong>: None.  
><strong>Rating<strong>: K  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: None.  
><strong>Wordcount<strong>: 221(B)

_A/N_: inspired by aderyn's Unsolved (from AO3):  
><em>Because the satisfaction of the solution might be 25% less satisfying than the satisfaction of not solving. Or not.<em>

And for mathematicians, for whom the answer matters less than the existence of one.

* * *

><p>"They're all pressing 'til they're solved," says Sherlock.<p>

John hums in agreement, but his thoughts are elsewhere.

He remembers wild rooftop runs and Sherlock's head lifted high before the scenting, the chase; the sight of delicate fingers tapping a wrist, lifting a twisted limb, and teasing out the strand of truth from all the might-have-beens; the gleam of a microscope, magnification clicking from forty to one hundred to four hundred (_a focus that sharp, it becomes a weapon_); a voice sliding high to low and back, played with the infinite care of a virtuoso – bringing to life emotions much studied, but rarely worn.

Liquid oxygen and hydrogen lie inert in their tanks until they unite, an errant spark tearing apart old bonds to create new ones (_energy, always searching for a new way downhill, a stable equilibrium_) – and then a rocket hisses, trembles, lifts, upwards and outwards in a perfect parabolic arc. (For every action, an equal and opposite reaction; for every Sherlock a John.)

_The game is on_, and Sherlock launches from his chair.

John marks the faint grin on Sherlock's lips and knows what drives the man on in his Sisyphean quest. (There have been worse reasons; he'll take what he can get.)

Not the solution itself, but the fact that a solution _exists_ is what ignites Sherlock's blood.


	3. Flatlined, Once More

**Disclaimer**: I own...well, definitely not Sherlock Holmes.  
><strong>Spoilers<strong>: _The Reichenbach Fall. ACD!canon.  
><em>**Rating**: K+  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: Multiple(!) allusion to character death. Whoops. Also, _meta_.  
><strong>Wordcount<strong>: 406

* * *

><p>The first time Sherlock Holmes flatlines, the word hasn't even been invented. The year is 1891, the location Meiringen, and he calmly pens a letter to a man so much more than his biographer ("<em>believe me to be, my dear fellow, very sincerely yours<em>") before standing up to look into a professor's eyes.

He's not afraid; this is his work's end.

The two fall, and the water tries its hardest to erase their existence.

—

And then he's a shadow at the edge of consciousness as the fog rolls over the moor. There are murders, and intrigues, and even a touch of romance, but he stands apart, a lone figure on a tor with the moon just behind.

The hound is a thing of myth – and so is he.

—

He walks in the faded footprints of Orpheus and scrambles over the dividing edge, having achieved the curse of a second life. Charon the ferryman watches him go and calculates the fee he must pay on his return.

After all, Sherlock Holmes is no immortal. Yet.

—

The second time is among the low hum of bees in Sussex Downs. It passes by, unnoticed.

—

The stage, the screen, fraying and dog-eared pages – they each bestow upon the detective a fragment of life. Though the circumstances may shift with every reincarnation, his essence is constant.

The price of living a thousand lives, however, is that one must also die a thousand deaths.

—

Once, he breathed out his last in John Watson's arms. The tears burned on his brow, and he vowed, _never again_.

—

This is certainly not the last time, but Sherlock's given up trying to keep a tally. All he knows is that a madman demands a fall, and he cannot refuse.

Moriarty goes out with a bang and a bullet; Sherlock gives himself up to the pull of gravity—

Flatlined, once more.

He wants to tell John who's grieving on the pavement that it will be all right, that it's happened before and that it'll happen again; but no matter the time and no matter the circumstances, "always, yours".

That he can't is his biggest regret.

He stands a pale ghost beside his own grave and waits for his next chance.

—

221B Baker Street tugs at him with invisible ties of steel and dreams.

"Bastard," whispers John.

"I'm sorry," he offers.

—

They stop together this time.

"Is this how it always feels?"

It's one of his better deaths.

* * *

><p><em>Reviews are a shot of endorphins straight to the brain.<em>


	4. The Nature of Light

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Sherlock Holmes. Or physics.  
><strong>Spoilers<strong>: None. (Line from THoB, though.)  
><strong>Rating<strong>: K  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: ...physics. Um?  
><strong>Wordcount<strong>: 221

_A/N: So, light doesn't really need a conductor. In the interests of scientific accuracy, then..._

* * *

><p>Sherlock is the light and John is the conductor. Or so it's been said.<p>

The truth is more complex than that. (When is it not?)

Sherlock Holmes is brilliant like a man and brilliant like light, a sudden flare that no-one dares ignore. But what radiates from him is much too intense: unshielded, he burns. (And burns up.)

Light doesn't need a conductor; light propagates through vacuum at nearly three hundred million metres per second. This is a constant of life, like body parts in the fridge and bullet holes in the wall.

As constant as John Watson.

Light is a wave. (Light is a particle.) Light refracts. (Light collides, like billiard balls.) Light is a contradiction that doesn't bother to explain itself. (Because no explanation is necessary.)

Sherlock Holmes shifts, red and blue.

Light falls off like gravity, like electricity, inverse-squared; light emanates and decoheres; light interferes with itself (constructively) (destructively) and paints diffraction patterns in shadows. Light needs a focus.

John is a focus.

John reflects, like the smooth curve of a parabolic mirror. John redirects, like the twisting pathway of an optical fibre. (_Total internal reflection_.) John amplifies, like a seeded crystal. (And polarises. And modulates.)

Attenuation means loss; attenuation means dimming. John doesn't intend to let that happen.

Sherlock may be luminous, but John makes him blaze.

* * *

><p><em>Reviews make my day. <em>


	5. Measure of Vertigo

**Disclaimer**: Sometimes I write things. Unfortunately, Sherlock Holmes was not one of them.  
><strong>Spoilers<strong>: _The Reichenbach Fall  
><em>**Rating**: T  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: Allusion to character death. You know the drill.  
><strong>Wordcount<strong>: 221(B)

_A/N: Inspired by the quote below. (Are quote!fics even a thing?)  
><em>"J'écrivais des silences, des nuits, je notais l'inexprimable. Je fixais des vertiges."  
>("I committed silences and darknesses to paper, I recorded the inexpressible. I took the measure of vertigo.")<em><br>_- Arthur Rimbaud (tr. Jeremy Harding), from "Delirium II: _Alchemy of the Word_"

* * *

><p>John.<p>

There's a box underneath my bed. It's not locked. Perhaps you've seen it. But you've never asked about it.

They're my case-files, from before. Before I acquired a blogger, that is.

(Objectively, it's been two years since we met. But memory is much more mutable than facts.)

You've wondered about my old cases. Wanted to do write-ups for those too. I never let you.

Crime is a many-faceted thing. You think you've seen it all - you haven't.

I haven't. But I've gotten close.

Those files don't tell of adventures and good triumphing over evil, John. They tell of fear and desperation and silence. And sometimes (often), the good doesn't triumph.

It's a dark world. (Maybe you knew that already. But you smile as if you don't.)

That's what Moriarty is, some manifestation of darkness that should have gone unexpressed. A mistake.

Yet he's not unlike me.

And that's why I'm standing up here, taking the measure of vertigo.

I don't regret anything, you know. But I would like to apologise - for bringing you into this in the first place, for all the smaller failures that led up to me, here, on this rooftop. For lying.

There's a plan. Of course there's a plan. But plans can go wrong - _do_ go wrong.

So good-bye, John – if I should never come back.

* * *

><p><em>If you feel like making someone's day...reviewing is an easy way to do it! <em>


	6. Dual

**Disclaimer**: These characters, and these physics, are not mine.  
><strong>Spoilers<strong>: _A Study in Pink  
><em>**Rating**: K  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: Contains physics.  
><strong>Wordcount<strong>: 221(B)

_A/N_: _"It is fair to say that we do not have a deep understanding of the reason for the prevalence of duality symmetries in physics. Nor do we have a proof of why a duality should exist in any given case...The only heuristic explanation of dualities we know of is the 'scarcity of rich structures', and consistent quantum theories are indeed rather rich."_ — Mirror Symmetry, Clay Mathematics Institute

* * *

><p>It's inscribed in the universe – particles and antiparticles, action and reaction, entangled pairs, coupling – and you, Sherlock Holmes, are no exception.<p>

It's symmetry, and _broken_ symmetry: two hands, chiral, one curled around a smooth violin neck and the other on a bow, and they're not the same but they're complementary.

You believe in conservation laws, energy and inertia, that time-translations are invariant (until they're not): hours passing, the lab empty, only the buzz of the centrifuge and hum of the microscope; and as you hold a life in a pipette the door opens, voices spill in, then a man limps in and your days reset—

And you know about bonding, the ionic and the covalent, polar, fundamental; but this is different, and you with your cold steel eyes (words like a scalpel) can't break what's forming under careful doctor's hands, the knife in the mantelpiece and "_oh god yes_", the bullet forged in blood singing what you should have known from the start: of all the forces in existence – gravitational, electromagnetic, nuclear – the strongest is fascination.

It's not a flaw (_a weakness_), these dualities, that come without neat explanations; and it's not a flaw that you need this, steady smiles and unwavering aim, and that he needs, too, adrenaline-fueled motion between grey pavement and greyer skies.

It's fact, certain, constant, brilliant.

* * *

><p><em>Over this summer, CERN found (with 5-sigma certainty) a particle with the mass predicted of the Higgs boson. This is a very belated celebration of that, and physics.<em>


	7. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Statistician

**Disclaimer**: These characters are not mine, especially Nate Silver.  
><strong>Spoilers<strong>: None._  
><em>**Rating**: K  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: Contains politics?  
><strong>Wordcount<strong>: 221(B)  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Sherlock is Nate Silver and it's election night.

_A/N_:_ I...wanted to write election fic. And then crack happened._

* * *

><p>It's 1:40 am and Sherlock is sprawled on the couch. "Of course," he groans, fingers flying over his laptop. "Florida. Although with the fiasco in 2000, you'd think they'd have been better prepared…"<p>

"Florida?" John wanders into the living room, blinking sleep from his eyes. "What—are you watching the American elections?"

"Duty to my blog, John," Sherlock says airily, and then raises an eyebrow as an email notification pops up. "Ah, excellent, more exit poll data," he pronounces with a gleeful smile, the sort that John normally associates with murders.

"Your blog just has rubbish about tobacco ash on it," John starts to point out, before realising that the site on Sherlock's screen is not the familiar black-and-blue layout of the Science of Deduction. "'fivethirtyeight'?" John squints at the URL. "What does that even mean?"

"Size of the US electoral college. It's a completely nonsensical system of voting, of course, but makes for a rather catchy domain name."

John frowns at the screen, littered with blue and red shapes. "So you're…predicting their election results? You're not even interested in politics _here_."

"Not politics, John, _statistics_. Data. People are incredibly predictable. Oh, for—no!" He suddenly groans upon switching tabs. "Use a dictionary!"

John rolls his eyes and leaves Sherlock yelling at the screen about the definition of "bellwether".

* * *

><p><em>Nate Silver is a real statistician who runs fivethirtyeight. He basically applies stats to poll results to come up with some impressively accurate predictions. Look him up!<em>


	8. The Elemental Suite

**Spoilers: **none**  
>Rating: <strong>K**  
>Warnings: <strong>none**  
>Wordcount: <strong>1547**  
>Summary: <strong>Sherlock, John, and their lives through a periodic table.

_A/N: Written for a prompt asking for 221Bs around the seven chemical elements starting with_ B.

* * *

><p><strong>Beryllium (Be, 4)<strong>

There are emeralds on the sitting room floor, hundreds of them, hard and glittering. Sherlock sprawls among them on his stomach, a jeweller's glass between one eye and the gem in front of his nose.

"What the _hell_," John says. Not a question; not even an expression of surprise, because he's used to this by now, coming home to find that Sherlock has let a case take over the flat like it's an extension of his mind.

"Don't touch anything," Sherlock says, almost absently. "I'd rather not have to look at everything twice."

"You remember every—of course you do," John says, and pulls up a hard-backed chair from the kitchen to watch Sherlock work. "Why have you robbed a jewellery shop?"

"It's a question of inventory," Sherlock says. "What does it mean when there are more gems in a locked vault in the morning than there were the previous night?"

"That someone's rubbish at counting?"

That earns John a fond roll of Sherlock's eyes, and then they're silent until Sherlock, with a triumphant _aha_, reaches out with long, precise fingers and holds up a small emerald to the light.

"Allow me to present the missing jewel from the beryl coronet."

"What, from that murder-robbery?"

"Exactly." His grin is very sharp. "Two men dead, and all for a crystal of beryllium."

* * *

><p><strong>Boron (B, 5)<strong>

"There are ants in the kitchen, Sherlock. _Ants_. Probably attracted to that honey experiment you're doing — what _are _you doing with that?"

"Are there?" Sherlock asks with interest. "There's an experiment I've been meaning to do."

"You can't just take this as an _opportunity_—" John starts, exasperated, but of course he can, and of course he would. "Fine." John throws his hands up in the air. "_Fine_. But you're cleaning up afterwards."

—

When John looks in the kitchen again, Sherlock has his eye to the ocular of a microscope, a lab-book tilted on his knee and a well-bitten pen tapping at the page. The sun is slanting through the kitchen window, landing on the table in distorted shapes, and over them crawl neat lines of black.

"Look at them, John," Sherlock says, utterly rapt. "Their system of communication; much more developed than our talking, with words and meaning and inevitable misinterpretation."

"Sure, but you don't see giant ants looking at _us _through microscopes, so if it's all the same I'd rather be a person, thanks."

Sherlock hums. "I do quite like you this way."

"What?" John says, startled.

"Yes," Sherlock smiles, and pushes a bottle into John's hand before walking out of the kitchen.

"Okay," John says slowly. He looks down at his hand, his thumb brushing over the word _boron_.

* * *

><p><strong>Bromine (Br, 35)<strong>

Sherlock's bought a dozen rolls of film and a camera. "Taking up a new hobby?" John asks. "Developing your artistic side, are you?"

"Oh, John, do use some sense," Sherlock says. "I can't very well infiltrate a photographer's club if I don't know anything about photography, can I?" He puts up blackout curtains on his bedroom window, a makeshift darkroom, and soon there are photographs everywhere, pinned fluttering on the wall or tossed carelessly across the floor.

"I like this one," John says, gazing closely at the round body of a bee in black and white, the scatter of pollen on its hind leg. "It's very nice. Do you mind if I keep it?"

"It's not meant to be _nice_," Sherlock says, but he doesn't protest when John slips the photo into his pocket.

—

In the end, the murderous photographer is caught after a wild chase, and afterwards Sherlock and John stagger into the flat to collapse bonelessly on the sofa.

"So, I suppose you'll stop with the photographs now," John says, a bit wistfully. "Some of them were quite good, you know."

It takes John a moment to realise Sherlock's mumbling words into the cushions. "You never watched them develop," he says, "and that was the most beautiful part. Bees and blood and bone, sharpening from just silver and bromine…"

* * *

><p><strong>Barium (Ba, 56)<strong>

"You—want to go to the fireworks display? Why the sudden fit of patriotism?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I really don't care if a man blows up the House of Lords — or fails to," Sherlock scowls. "It's for a case."

"The man with the back of his head bashed in?"

"Precisely. The suspect claims he couldn't have sneaked up behind the victim because he was limping; the victim would have heard him. The victim, however, had been setting off fireworks earlier in the day; so arises the question of how long a fireworks-induced hearing impairment might last."

"All right, then," John says. "There's always the one at Battersea."

—

The display is well underway, firework after firework screaming upwards to explode in a fiery burst of colour. "Wow," John breathes, almost involuntarily. "That's—"

"—only a chemical and physical reaction," Sherlock finishes, his voice low and close to John's ear. "_Focus_, John. How well can you hear me?"

"Um, fine," John clears his throat. "Perfectly well."

"Excellent," Sherlock says, straightening up again. His fingers are barely touching John's sleeve.

"Hang on," John says as another firework lights the sky a deep green. "The case—"

"The victim wore ear protection," Sherlock says nonchalantly.

"So this was, what, an elaborate plan for—"

"Shh," Sherlock says. "Did you know, the green sparks come from traces of barium—"

* * *

><p><strong>Bismuth (Bi, 83)<strong>

Flecks of paint at the scene of the crime; a green-painted ladder in front of them both, tagged as evidence.

"No," Sherlock says, "no, something's wrong, I'm missing something. But what?"

"So, you don't think it was the brother?" John frowns.

Sherlock is pacing back and forth; his coat flares dramatically out behind him. "It could be the brother," he finally admits, coming to a stop to peer closely at the bottom of the ladder. "But he would have put away the ladder after the crime, not left it out in plain sight. So, why would anyone…"

"So then what exactly do you think this is?" John demands. "A…decoy?"

"I'll have to run some tests," Sherlock snaps decisively. He peers at the tabletop underneath the ladder and brushes off a few paint chips that have fallen off.

"Right, then," John says as Sherlock strides off to the laboratory. "I'll just…wait here, shall I?"

—

"Come on, John!" The shout floats down the hallway before Sherlock does. "Yes, someone is trying to frame our suspect."

"What, so that's not…the same ladder?"

"No," Sherlock says cheerfully. "The paint from the scene is too old. Or our ladder's too young."

"How do you tell if paint's _too old_?"

"Simple. Paint from the scene contains traces of lead. The ladder? Not lead. Bismuth."

* * *

><p><strong>Berkelium (Bk, 97)<strong>

Mycroft comes by the flat with a severe expression and a folder in a briefcase, and talks to Sherlock in an unyielding voice. Ten minutes later, a black car departs and Sherlock shouts up the stairs, "John, we're going to America!"

"America?" John repeats. "What the hell's in America?"

"The Lawrence Berkeley Laboratory."

John blinks. "Hang on, _what_?"

—

The weather is cloudless and calm in Berkeley. Sherlock narrows his eyes against the sun, but John takes a moment to savour the warmth.

"So, Mycroft must have promised you something ridiculous," John says as he follows Sherlock inside. "What exactly are we doing here?"

"Just think of it as a holiday," Sherlock says with a shrug. "The case shouldn't be particularly taxing, but Mycroft would insist on being tiresome — something about national security…"

"National security? _Here_?"

"Mr Holmes? Mr Watson?" A woman in glasses and a white lab coat approaches them with an uncertain expression. "I understand you're here to investigate the, well—"

"Yes." Sherlock flashes an ID.

"Ah." Her face clears. "All right, I'll take you two to the director."

"So, what is this place?" John asks as they wait in front of a lift.

"Well, it was originally founded as the radiation laboratory for the university," she starts. "Quite a few transuranium elements have been discovered here: neptunium, plutonium, berkelium…"

* * *

><p><strong>Bohrium (Bh, 107)<strong>

"Why isn't Lestrade calling?" Sherlock groans from the sofa.

"Because he doesn't need you?" John offers, settled comfortably in his chair. "Never mind," he grins when Sherlock shoots him a wounded look. "Well, it could be the fact that you've turned down the last four cases he's offered, because they were, quote, _boring_."

"Well, they were!" Sherlock insists. "Why can't murderers be more imaginative?"

"I'm sure a case worthy of your attention will come up soon," John soothes. "In the meantime, I like having a quiet evening now and then."

Sherlock scoffs, but stays silent when John turns his eyes to the paper.

—

Half an hour later, Sherlock's leaning over the back of John's chair to point at the page. "Seven down, it's—"

"You don't even _like _crosswords," John complains, snatching the paper out of the way.

"Even the crossword is marginally less boring than doing nothing," he huffs. "Besides, you've been staring at that line for several minutes now. Clearly you don't know the answer."

"Okay, fine," John says. "Just one clue, all right? And then go, I don't know, practise your violin, or blow up something."

"Dull," Sherlock waves.

"Too bad. Oh, what about this one?" John taps the boxes with one finger. "Seven letters, starts with B. 'Formerly 107, now named after a Dane'."

"Ah," Sherlock says. "Bohrium."

* * *

><p><em>Some notes:<em>  
><em>- Boric acid is effective as an insecticide.<em>  
><em>- Bismuth is a safer alternative to lead in paints.<em>  
><em>- LBL actually does unclassified research, but I wanted Sherlock and John there anyway, ha.<em>


End file.
